There is the key. But the great point was still unaccomplished. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. He was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the practitioners of crime. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She dismissed the idea of doing so. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is.
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